


Campaign Dance

by orphan_account



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s07e08 The Wedding, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-20
Updated: 2006-03-20
Packaged: 2019-05-15 14:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14791946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Post-ep forThe Wedding. J/D





	Campaign Dance

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Campaign Dances**

**by:** The Housekeeper 

**Character(s):** Josh Lyman, Donna Moss  
**Pairing(s):** Josh/Donna  
**Category(s):** General/Post-Ep  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells, NBC, etc., etc. I am not making a profit from this; don't sue me, 'cause I won't be able to pay.   
**Spoiler:** "The Wedding"  
**Written:** 2006-02-25  
**Author's Note:** This is _not_ how I meant for it to be. I'm not sure what I wanted it to be (which is probably part of the problem), but it didn't turn out that way. But Josh was tired and Donna was mad and they were both pounding on the inside of my head to get out, so here we are. Only my first fic (posted), so please, _please_ send feedback! Extra-special, with-ten-maraschino-cherries-on-top triple-thanks to coffeejunkie from the TwoP West Wing forum, for volunteering her time to beta on absolutely no notice at all. Without her, this would be nowhere near the caliber it is now. You rock! 

He had never liked dancing. It was something he did at functions, maybe on a date (and those had rapidly become a distant memory), but now, it seemed to him as if he were a character in a fairy tale - the one where the heroine ended up dancing herself to death. 

He was engaged in a constant tango with exhaustion. 

Sometimes he led the dance; sometimes 'it' did, the two of them grappling for control. It was, he reflected, a monster, the monster just beneath his skin that couldn't be erased; couldn't be eliminated anymore. It could only be dueled - danced with, as they perpetually waltzed in circles. It was no longer a feeling or an emotion; it was just something that was. It was palpable, it was tangible. And it tainted everything he did. 

It was hard to have room for anything else. But when he did, everything was at one extreme or the other - and none of it helped. Pain. Loss. Irritation. All of them brought different images - the shape of people he'd lost; the shadows of things that had never taken place or things that had been forgotten; tears that had never fallen; dreams left unfulfilled. There was anger - anger at anything and everything, frustration with idiocy and apathy, depression and desperation in equal measure. 

And then… there was fear. Fear, which had an image all its own. A different kind of image - one he wasn't sure of. All he knew was that it was a different kind of pain, taunting him from the sidelines, showing him everything he couldn't do, everything he couldn't have. It was almost paralyzing, showing him his limitations, forcing him to confront the fact that he _had_ limitations. And it filled him with hatred. People said hate was red. But his was white, burning white. No other images, just unabashedly pure, consuming, vindicating white. He didn't understand it; he couldn't control it. And that was the most fearsome thing of all. 

\- - - - - - - - - - 

Josh sighed and rubbed his eyes. He and Leo had hammered out some sort of strategy, but he couldn't stop staring at the electoral map as if it could resolve itself into a plan - lists of numbers and values. If he looked just a _little_ longer, it would be worth it; he would find something he hadn't seen; it would be better… 

He threw down the paper in frustration. It would never be better. He should have known by now that this was as good as it was going to get. The experience he'd gained through his years in politics should have taught him to realize that nothing ever got easier, only harder. And that there was never any best answer. Everything was done by halves and via nuances and subtle hints that could only be deciphered sometimes. When you got lucky. 

He looked at the paper on the floor of the portico and blinked. He couldn't leave it there, but it seemed so far away. Ages away. Years away. Finally, he reached down to pick it up, his back making very strong objections to his efforts. He grunted as he straightened, and crumpled the piece of paper before walking off in search of a trashcan. 

He didn't get very far before he stopped. He'd been thinking about donations and had managed to completely forget where he was headed. As he stared down at the crumpled sheet of paper in his hand, trying to get his weary synapses to fire fast enough for him to understand what it was, he heard footsteps approaching. Turning quickly to cover his confusion, he found himself confronted with paleness. Pale hair, pale skin. He blinked. 

"Donna." Somehow, he managed to sound normal. Well, his voice was a little raspy, but he wasn't about to split hairs. 

"Josh," she said evenly. "What are you doing?" 

"I was just…" Having already moved on to other things in his head and forgotten that he'd forgotten what he _was_ doing, he knit his brow in consternation as he looked down at the crumpled paper in his hand. 

"Throwing that out?" Donna prompted. 

"Yes!" He realized he'd probably answered too quickly, and sounded far too relieved. "Throwing it out. I don't need it anymore… I think." He un-crumpled the sheet as if to remind himself what it was. "Yeah, I don't need it. Leo and I worked something out." 

"I see." 

He wondered if her icy tone was directed at him. Then his exhausted brain clicked into gear as he first of all realized that it probably was, and then remembered the reason why. "About before. I'm sorry I sort of ignored you, but I have to fix this. I do." 

"Well, it would be fine, if you didn't ignore me the rest of the time." 

Yeah, that was definitely directed at him. His patience - never his strong suit - had suffered the most wear from the stress he was under, and he felt his own temper heating up. "Look, they wanted to replace me. It was kind of important." 

"Right. God forbid you lighten up for an hour or so at a wedding!" Her voice was even, and only a little sarcastic. 

If he wasn't angry already, he might have heard the hint of concern in her voice. As it was, he disregarded the comment, choosing instead to deal with her earlier accusation. 

"And I _don't_ ignore you the rest of the time. You thought I always took you for granted? I _didn't_. And you didn't give me a chance to explain that before you ran off and then yelled at me about liking burnt hamburgers!" 

"After you didn't hire me back! I thought you would at least do that- I thought that after more than eight years of working together, you would have done more than throw my quotes back at me!" 

"I _couldn't_ hire you back! You left me to go work for my opponent!" 

"He wasn't your opponent then!" 

"You knew I didn't support him! But you went off to help Will run his campaign anyway!" 

"This is about me working for _Will_ instead of you?" 

"No! It's about politics! God, Donna, you should know that!" 

"So all I was was a political problem?" 

" _Every_ thing is a political problem! People don't want to replace me because they don't _like_ me- they want to replace me because I screwed up the politics in Illinois!" 

Donna was so angry that the change of topic barely registered with her. "So you made a mistake! Big deal! Get back on the damn horse!" 

"I _can't_!" 

Donna yelled at him with all the anger that had been festering inside for the past…? Year? Few months? She felt as though her entire being was on fire, burning white-hot. "Why _not_?" 

Josh was just as angry, even more desperate, and had reached his breaking point. He didn't yell - he screamed, screamed with everything that was left in him, with everything that was left and everything that was broken. "Because there's no one to help me up!" 

There was a horribly, horribly long silence. 

The silence swallowed up the sound that had seemed so loud; sucking the words into a vacuum of stillness. Donna finally cracked that monstrous _nothingness_ with no more than a whisper. 

"Oh, Josh." 

She cupped his cheek in her hand, cool fingers seeking to soothe hot skin. He was burning, but inside, deep inside, he was ice. So cold. Donna couldn't notice. There was no way for her to know, no way for him to show it. So cold, and so deep. 

"I'm here," she said softly. "We're all here. If you wanted help, you just had to ask-" 

Josh shook his head, the anger drained away now, leaving no emotion, nothing - nothing but the jagged shards of exhaustion. "I've forgotten how." 

Donna shook her head too - in confusion. "What do you…? How can you…?" 

Josh realized his answer hadn't made much sense. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember how to speak, how to think, when it was all he could do to stand. "For such a long time, I _couldn't_ ask for help, because there was nobody there, so that by the time I _could_ , I'd forgotten how to do it." He wasn't sure if that was much better, but it was the best he could do. 

Donna was still stuck on one part of his sentence. "We're always here. I'm always here." 

Josh slumped, as if the weight of his shoulders was too much combined with the weight of everything he carried on them. "I know. It was like before, a little. Stanley explained it - he described it - 'locked into damage control'. That's what he told me, that Christmas. It's only a few months until it's Christmas again, but we haven't come full circle - have we? It was… Five years ago? Six? Oh, God, it was a long time ago. Feels like forever. Half a decade or more. And none of us are getting any younger. Maybe _that's_ really why - about getting back on the horse. It's - my horse, it's pulling away and I can't catch up no matter how hard I try - it's running too fast - and I'm so tired. Oh God, Donna, I'm so tired." So cold. So cold, and so empty. 

The crumpled sheet of paper had fallen to the floor. Josh stepped back, stepped away from Donna, and picked it up. For some reason, his back hurt less this time. 

"I have to go throw this out." 

He felt her eyes on him, and instead of holding her gaze for a moment before walking away, he turned his head in shame for his cowardice. 

He didn't like it when he fought with her. He didn't know if she felt the same way, but he didn't like it when he fought with her. How could he? He missed her so much, but every time he felt that they might be getting a little closer, he pushed her away. Horribly. Roughly. 

He didn't know why. 

He returned to the wedding reception and struggled through the rest of it. He smiled for Ellie and Vic, hugged Zoey, asked about Liz's husband, who had been, for some reason, unable to make his sister-in-law's wedding. At the White House. He'd never really liked the guy, anyway. 

But always at the back of his mind was this nagging fear. What the hell was he doing? Not only politically, but to his personal life? His fractured psyche seemed to be taking control of him without giving him a chance to stand up for himself. Not even a polite notice: "Hi there - I'm your messed-up subconscious that you've been ignoring. Thanks for running the ship, but I'll be taking over now." It would have been nice. It would have been polite. It would have been the right thing to do. But since when did he, any part of him, do the right thing? 

He was going to have to fix that. 

Josh could only think of one way to do it, and it was his absolute, top-of-the-list, least favorite thing to do in the world: apologizing. 

The only question was how. He wouldn't blame Donna if she never wanted to talk to him again. And it wasn't like he was doing it just for her. Some small part of his mind thought that maybe, if he started doing things right, started doing the _right_ thing, started fixing it when he screwed up… if he could get his personal life on track, then maybe, _maybe_ , he wouldn't make as many mistakes professionally. Maybe he could start seeing things before they happened. Maybe he could emulate the one man who continued to believe in him, and so deserved to have the most of what he could offer, deserved to have the best of him. 

Maybe he could become Leo. 

He discarded the thought as soon as it occurred. He could never be Leo. He didn't know what to do if- no; he corrected himself firmly- _when_ Santos won - the position of Chief of Staff was offered to him. He knew he could never be what Leo had been to the President, never be so effective, never inspire such loyalty. Never be as loved. 

Josh shook his head. He'd gotten off track. Donna. He had to apologize to Donna without making her talk to him. That was the main thing. Okay… he could do this. 

He realized that he had been staring into some amber liquid in a glass that had appeared in his hand. When had he gone to the bar? He couldn't remember. He took a cautious sip of the liquid. Scotch. Good scotch, too, but he had never really liked the stuff. He had no idea why he'd ordered it. 

Shrugging, he downed the rest of it and set the glass down. Right now, any alcohol was better than no alcohol. Apologizing, he thought, should be made illegal. Everyone should just know each other well enough to _know_ when someone's really sorry. After all, half the time, when someone says they're sorry, they don't really mean it. 

Was that what Donna was going to think? That he wasn't sincere? He had to find a way around that. He could solve problems. After all, he was a politician. It was his job. Well, not his job to apologize to Donna, but his job to solve problems. So he would do that. He would apply the skills he had gained to solving the mess that was his life. 

Early the next morning, he walked away from her office in the Washington campaign headquarters, feeling like maybe he was on the right track. Maybe this time, he really had done the right thing. 

On her desk, the bouquet of flowers rustled in the draft as he closed the door. The attached note fluttered desperately for a short moment, revealing the scrawled message on the reverse. 

_February 7th. April 23rd. September 30th.  
_

I always did like anniversaries. Glad you made another one. 

\-- J 


End file.
